


Ten thousand miles gone

by ASheepsLife



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Caleb finds out about Mr. Sackett, Canonical Character Death, Don't copy to another site, E rating is for chapter 2 - in case that's not your thing, Friends to Lovers, I'm sorry Mr. Sackett, M/M, because those two were friends too y'all, it's all about the affirmation of life, set after 2x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASheepsLife/pseuds/ASheepsLife
Summary: Returning from his decoy mission to Baltimore, Caleb doesn't expect the dreadful surprise that awaits him back at camp.###The aftermath of Sackett's death, particularly as it pertains to Caleb.Picks up after 2x05.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to dedicate this to [Apfelessig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig), who helped me beat it into shape, and who is a wonderful human bean and valued asset to the fandom.
> 
> Split into two chapters because the caesura felt organic at that point? This also gives you the option to skip the smut. Chapter one ends on a hopeful note; however, the full resolution happens in chapter two.
> 
> Title from "River" by Leon Bridges because:
> 
> Been travelling these wide roads  
> For so long  
> My heart's been far from you  
> Ten thousand miles gone
> 
> Oh, I wanna come near and give  
> Every part of me  
> But there's blood on my hands  
> And my lips are unclean

Making his way through the endless rows of tents, the noise of the bustling camp almost jarring after days spent on the road, Caleb can't deny he's glad to be back. It's not that he missed life in camp - what's there to miss, honestly? No, the road suits him just fine. And he's more than happy to let Ben hold the fort while he runs the missions Ben needs carried out.

That doesn't mean he enjoys leaving Ben behind. There’s no telling what kind of a fix he might get himself into in Caleb’s absence.

Caleb doesn’t try to quell the warmth that suffuses his chest when Ben's tent comes into view, merely quickens his stride and hopes he'll actually find Ben there. While he's not usually a prophet of doom, he hadn't been able to shake the bad feeling he'd had on his trip to Baltimore. Perhaps it was the fact that, for all that they'd been intended as a decoy, they hadn't seen hide nor hair of Rogers even once. So he's all the more eager to clap eyes on Ben, to find out if de Francy was successful, and reassure himself of Ben's wellbeing.

Just as he's about to push through the tent's flaps, he runs straight into his quarry coming out.

"Easy there," Caleb exclaims, grabbing Ben by the upper arms just as Ben does the same with him.

"Caleb…"

Close as their literal run-in has brought them, there is no chance for Caleb to miss how harried Ben looks, blue eyes stormy and strands of hair flying loose around his face. There is a fragility about him, as in a string wound too tight, liable to snap at the first unmindful touch.

"In the flesh," Caleb replies, peering closely at his friend. "Everything all right, Tallboy?"

Ben stares at him with wild eyes for another moment before he seems to deflate, sinking in on himself. He lets go of Caleb and steps back into the tent, out of Caleb's hold.

"Come in."

Caleb slowly follows the subdued invitation, watching Ben walk over to his desk aimlessly, like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. The impression is confirmed when Ben simply stops upon reaching the table, the momentum that had propelled him out of the tent and into Caleb's path leaving him completely.

Without taking his eyes off Ben, Caleb sits himself down on the edge of Ben's cot, trying to gauge his mood. Sometimes it takes Ben a while to come out with whatever’s preoccupying him and mostly, waiting him out does the trick. In this instance, though, he's got an absent air about him that makes Caleb wonder if he might need a little prodding after all, lest he get lost in his head. Before Caleb can say anything, however, Ben beats him to it.

"Your part of the mission went as planned?"

Well, if that doesn't raise some delightful implications.

"Without a hitch. Baltimore didn't give us any trouble."

Heaving a sigh, Ben turns and leans against his desk, hands curled around the edge.

“No, because Rogers went after de Francy.”

Well, shite. Caleb can't even say that he's surprised; Rogers is a damn hound, not likely to be thrown off the trail by a feint. It would also explain why his trip went so smoothly. He leans his elbows on his knees.

"What happened?"

As if the outcome of that encounter could be anything other than disastrous.

“He ambushed de Francy and his guide, not five miles out of camp,” Ben supplies. “Killed them both.”

The lack of intonation in Ben's voice tells Caleb he's already gone over all possible iterations of what they could have done differently, most likely with an inordinate amount of self-recrimination. It also tells him the fate of their charge, making his next question more of a formality.

“The ledger?”

“Gone,” Ben confirms with all the resignation of knowing that that loss may well have cost them the French alliance. That is a bleak prospect Caleb can't allow himself to face right now. So he makes a note to perhaps float the idea of permanently redressing the threat Rogers poses, and tries to dispel Ben’s despondent air.

“Well, that’s just a waste of my hard work,” he says, sitting back up, because what’s done is done and the only way to rid Ben of that defeated look is to focus on the things they _can_ change. Ben, however, doesn’t even grace him with one of his secretly treasured _your reacting to this situation with humour is inappropriate_ looks, so Caleb decides to change tack.

“What about Sutherland and Shanks? You and Sackett manage to sort that out?”

He's fairly certain he would've heard if any attempt on Washington's life had been successful.

If Caleb had hoped the change of topic would perk Ben up, he’s sorely disappointed. Ben closes his eyes as if in pain and Caleb feels a cold knot forming in his stomach. He stares at Ben until Ben raises his head and meets his gaze and says: “Sackett’s dead.”

The knot drops out of his stomach, leaving behind a pit bottomless and incredibly dark.

"Dead.”

Impossible.

Caleb grips the edge of Ben’s cot with both hands.

He’d seen Sackett not a week ago. How could he be dead?

His gaze is still stuck on Ben, like he might start to make more sense if Caleb just waits a little longer.

Ben, however, merely gives a heavy nod. As if that explains fucking anything.

“The day after you left,” he confirms.

“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” Caleb asks incredulously, because why would Sackett be dead? He wasn’t the target.

“It was Sutherland,” Ben replies. “Or Gamble, I should say. Only he was never after Washington…”

Caleb tries to focus on Ben’s words as he launches into an account of what transpired during his absence. He’s straining so hard to wrap his head around the notion that Sackett could be gone he nearly misses half of them.

Charmingly odd, refreshingly irreverent Sackett. Hadn’t he _told_ them not to trust anyone?

Ben’s started pacing in what little space there is, getting his blood up as Caleb watches, still immobilised.

“I’ve been sorting through what Gamble left behind trying to determine what he _took_ , how extensive the damage truly is…”

How is Ben going on about the bloody spy business? Their friend is - gone, apparently. Who in hell’s name cares about a bunch of documents? 

Although...

There always was the possibility that it would turn bloody, Caleb supposes. Such is the nature of war. But Sackett was never supposed to be in the line of fire.

“The _moment_ Shanks was discovered as a defector, Washington wrote him off as a credible source,” Ben is saying, frustration as clear in his voice as it is in every tense line of his body, every quick turn of his steps. “If only he’d come clean from the start...”

Rather charitable to believe Washington would’ve listened to him even then. Old man could be a bit set in his ways.

Dropping his gaze to the floor Caleb can’t help but wonder, almost idly, if things would have gone differently if he’d remained in camp. If, when Washington called Ben off the case, Caleb could have been at Sackett’s side still, and he wouldn’t have been alone with Sutherland. Could he have thwarted the ruse that took Sackett from them? The ruse that was successful only because Washington evidently doesn’t trust Ben to do his damned job - a job Washington himself appointed him to. Ben’s got good instincts, and Caleb would dearly like to give their commander a piece or two of his mind for allowing others to pay the price for his disregarding them.

“I _told_ Washington there was something off about ‘Sutherland’. I know I’ve misstepped recently, but how does he expect me to do my work if he won’t put his trust in me again?”

Ben’s boots come to a halt at the edge of Caleb’s field of vision and there’s a forceful exhale of air. Caleb can almost see the frustrated hand raking through Ben’s hair, the attempt to collect himself. A brief pause, then:

“Caleb?”

“Mh.”

He keeps his eyes down in the hopes it will help him rein in the urge to snap just how little he cares to hear another word about Washington right now.

The boots turn in his direction.

“Are you all right?” Ben’s voice is careful. “You haven’t said anything.”

Caleb can’t retain a derisive laugh.

“What the hell do you want me to say, Tallboy?” He does look up now, at Ben standing in front of him with one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sabre, the same apprehension on his face. “So sorry for your loss? It ain’t your fault? Better luck next time?”

Ben’s expression shutters, hurt, jaw clenching and head turning to the side. Maybe Caleb’s being unfair, but the earlier cottony feeling has burnt off in a sudden flare of anger that’s impossible to contain.

“I’m gone for a week -” he’s aware that his voice is rising but unable to check it “- and when I get back you tell me that not only did our plan fail, but oh, incidentally, _Sackett’s dead!_ ”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Ben must hear how stricken he sounds, too, because when he looks back at Caleb the fight goes right out of him, loosening his shoulders and softening his eyes.

"Caleb…"

"All right, look," Caleb intervenes, more measuredly, hand raised to stop him. The concern pouring off of Ben in stifling waves is too much. "My two cents? Washington'll come around. Once he remembers he needs you," he goes on, partly because it's true and partly as a cheap shot to distract Ben.

Ben’s gaze remains fixed on Caleb for another moment, like he can see right through Caleb’s ploy. Thankfully, he grants Caleb the evasion, turning toward his desk with a scoff.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says, picking up a letter and turning round to hold it aloft. “Not once he learns of this.”

“Oh good, there’s more.”

It’s less caustic than it might have been under his sudden weariness. Caleb’s had just about all the bad news he wants to deal with in one day.

Ben grimaces and makes his way over, handing Caleb the letter - from Anna, it turns out - and dropping down heavily next to him on the bed. He braces his elbows on his knees after glaring at the missive like he wants it to catch fire in Caleb’s hands.

With every one of Anna’s lines he reads, Caleb understands him more. Just like Abe, to go and get himself into trouble of this spectacular order.

“Christ, Woody,” he sighs when he’s through, earning himself a derisive snort from Ben. “You got this today?”

“Just before you arrived,” Ben replies with a nod. “I’ve got to take it to Washington,” he continues with a sigh and he sounds so world-weary beyond his years that Caleb wishes, not for the first time, that he could take some of that weight off his shoulders. From the start, Ben’s relationship with Washington was never without tension, but it’s been particularly fraught of late, and he can only imagine the impact Sackett’s...Sackett's loss must have had. Ben looks like the last thing he wants to do in this world is to break this development to the general. Not that Caleb can blame him. Studying Ben’s drawn expression, guilt wells up in Caleb for jumping down his throat like that.

“It ain’t your fault, Benny,” he sighs, because it’s not, ultimately. What was Ben supposed to do, disobey direct orders from his commanding officer? Perhaps Caleb will eventually even be able to fully believe it himself.

“Maybe not _that_ ,” Ben concedes, nodding at Anna’s letter, and Caleb jumps in before he can go any further down that path.

“Neither is the ledger, nor Sackett.”

“Caleb…”

"It ain’t," Caleb insists, resting a calming hand on Ben's thigh in the hopes it will provide them both some reassurance, bring them back into alignment.

"I'm the head of intelligence, Caleb!" Ben jumps up again, dislodging Caleb's hand in the process. "I'm pretty sure counterintelligence is part of the job description."

"Yeah, and if Washington recognised that, maybe things would have turned out differently," Caleb points out, unable to suppress the heat in his own voice.

“He can't keep me from doing the right thing!" Ben’s pacing again. “He may have earned my loyalty, but he doesn’t own my integrity. Who knows, maybe I could’ve -”

“What, gone against his orders? What would that’ve gotten you except the boot?”

“Maybe I could have saved Nathaniel!”

Ben rounds on Caleb as it breaks out of him, full of vitriol, and for the first time Caleb really sees the impact Sackett's death had on him. There is a side to Ben, sharp and calculating, that allows him to set personal attachments aside in service of his cause. Caleb is not particularly fond of this side of his friend, but it serves him well in his position as head of intelligence. Now that divide seems to be crumbling. With some apprehension Caleb wonders if, along with his aptitude as major and spymaster, Ben might be in the process of losing a protection vital to his self-preservation.

Looking up at Ben, watching him try to gather himself - chest expanding for a forceful exhale, shoulders dropping but still tense, a hand dragged over his hair - it strikes Caleb that however it came about, Ben lost a friend, too. They both did, and the longing to console Ben overcomes Caleb, to restore their strength like they usually do for each other, with each other, instead of this not-quite-fighting.

"I have to report this," Ben sighs, indicating the letter. Perhaps it’s his bid to put an end to the strained conversation. He's still on edge, though, bristly and high-strung; letting him go off to meet Washington in this state can only spell disaster. Caleb decides an intervention is called for, and pushes his own turmoil down for the moment.

"Not looking like that, you don't."

Ben looks down at his uniform with an affronted expression.

"Your hair looks like a chicken tried roost in it," Caleb remarks, aiming for his habitual blithe approach and getting up from the cot as Ben lifts a hand to his queue. "Unsuccessfully, I might add."

Ben huffs and drops his hand, watching critically as Caleb pulls out the chair from his desk.

"Have a seat. Let me fix that for you." When Ben hesitates, wary, glancing towards the tent's entrance, he goes on. "Come on. A good impression can go a long way."

With a roll of his eyes, Ben acquiesces.

"I think it's a little late for good impressions," he says dryly, sitting down in front of Caleb.

"Nonsense. One look at those big blue eyes and all will be forgiven."

"Jesus, Caleb," Ben splutters as the tips of his ears turn pink in the dim light of the tent. All right, maybe he overshot the mark, there.

"Here, hold this," he only says, handing Ben his hair ties. He carefully undoes Ben's queue all the way, using his fingers to comb through the soft strands, allowing himself a few more passes than strictly necessary as he gathers them back.

He tries not to linger too obviously before starting the rebraiding process. In Caleb's carefully considered opinion the regular confinement of Ben's hair borders on criminal. Although in actuality it's probably a mercy - Caleb likely wouldn't get much of anything done if he were constantly faced with the distraction of Ben with his hair down. So he contents himself with these moments, revelling in the fact that Ben still allows Caleb to take care of him in this small way.

So, while not unprecedented, Caleb still cherishes each and every opportunity he gets to run his hands through Ben's hair for this innocuous reason - even though the shiver that races through Ben when Caleb’s nails accidentally drag along his scalp inspires some less innocuous thoughts in Caleb's mind. Reining himself in, Caleb makes sure to keep his ministrations above board, because while they might be a guilty indulgence, they also constitute an efficient way to get Ben to relax, and he doesn't want to ruin his efforts by making Ben uncomfortable. Although that motive is also not an entirely altruistic one; Ben pliant and loose-limbed in his hands, _by_ his hands, is a temptation unto itself.

As is the nape of Ben's neck, for that matter, and Caleb entertains the same relationship of gratitude and frustration towards Ben’s clothes for hiding it as he does towards his braid for exposing it. Now, he lets his fingers brush the soft skin where Ben’s hair begins as he redoes the braid, because he’s nothing if not an opportunist. Twining the strands together, he valiantly resists the temptation to let one or two escape. Ben somehow manages to look more irresistible with strands of his hair defying his usual fastidiousness than when it’s loose entirely, and one day Caleb will call to account whichever powers of the universe are responsible for it. For the moment, he makes sure Ben meets his own exacting standards. Tying off his handiwork, he claps his hands on Ben's shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't be too hard on Abe," he says, adopting a tone of unconcern, "you know he can't help being a blockhead. It’s congenital."

Ben snorts in agreement, bringing one hand up to squeeze Caleb's in thanks before rising from the chair.

"The same goes for Washington," Caleb continues, leaving one hand resting on the back of the chair, and this time the answering huff is more incredulous. "You tell him that," he instructs Ben, who pauses at the exit to look at him in fond exasperation. "Tell him Caleb Brewster says he's an idiot."

Shaking his head at him, Ben turns to go. Caleb swears he sees his lips twitch.

Once Ben’s gone, Caleb drops his other hand to the back of the chair as well as the weight of everything Ben told him crashes down on him: The king’s ledger, lost, and with it probably the French help they so desperately need; Abe in prison, receiving God knows what kind of treatment; and Sackett…

“God, you were right, you paranoid bastard.”

Caleb feels the pit widening beneath him, threatening to drag him under, now that his focus is no longer on Ben. Of course he doesn’t like the idea of Abe in prison; the Sugar House might not be the Jersey, but Caleb imagines any wallowing that is being done is not done in luxury - and that's without considering Abe's precarious situation. But they can _do_ something about that. Surely Washington will recognise it’s in his interest to allow them to get their man on Long Island back into the game. And if he proves obstinate, well, a little insubordination can go a long way. Thinking on his feet is what Caleb _does_. Adverse circumstances arise, unfavourable twists of fate and impossible odds, he adapts and deals with them. Keeps moving.

But Sackett...Sackett’s gone. He’s dead and there’s not a fucking thing Caleb can do about that and that kind of impotence has always had the potential to bring him to his knees.

Good thing he knows just where to find plenty of alcohol.

Grabbing the letter Ben’s left on his cot, he heads out of the tent.

***

He knew Washington wouldn't exactly be pleased by the news of Abe's latest hare-brained scheme, but he didn't think the damfool would actually relieve Ben of his duties.

Well, insubordination it is.

Pushing his own ire to the side, Caleb starts spinning ideas how to rescue Hewlett and, by extension, Abe. That, he can do.

***

Ben finds him at a campfire later - late - that evening, another bottle of Madeira his last remaining company after the men he’d been sitting with wisely decided in favour of sleep some time ago. 

His thoughts feel adrift, slightly unmoored from reality. That might have something to do with the amount of wine currently circulating his system.

Loose like this his mind is easier to steer away from directions that are too painful or overwhelming to contemplate. Perhaps not the most productive, but it's not like you can meet death with productive. That's the whole fucking problem. 

Of course, a helmsman three sheets to the wind means it's hard to control where he'll end up instead. Perhaps because it's a more pleasant subject, or lured by the comfort in familiarity, Caleb's had to fight increasingly harder not to lose himself to the memory of a riled-up Ben, pacing in his tent, heated, animated, _alive_ , and the fierce gratitude that sweeps through him that it was someone else who had become collateral to Gamble’s ploy.

The accompanying guilt that follows hot on its heels reliably circles his thoughts right back to Sackett and the reason he’s freezing his bollocks off drinking Madeira that is definitely not worth its black market going rate in the first place.

All told it’s probably a blessing Ben interrupts when he does.

“You planning on spending the night out here?” he asks, coming to stand beside the log Caleb’s sitting on.

Caleb shrugs indifferently.

“S’nice. You’re welcome to join me,” he replies, not taking his eyes off the flames.

“However tempting that may be, I was actually headed to bed,” Ben says after a brief pause during which Caleb can feel his keen gaze.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Caleb waves him along with the bottle in his hand.

“Maybe _you_ should join _me_.”

That does make Caleb look up. It doesn’t seem like Ben intended or even realised the innuendo. Caleb can’t resist.

“Why, Major Tallmadge. How forward of you.”

He lifts his eyebrows and makes sure the double entendre is clear in _his_ voice.

Ben only rolls his eyes, however, and holds a hand out to Caleb.

“Come on. If you’re making jokes that bad you definitely need sleep.”

If only Ben knew how much of a joke this isn't. Knew that Caleb would take him up on such an offer in a heartbeat.

But Ben doesn’t know. He can’t know. So Caleb leaves the bottle (good as empty, anyway), merely takes Ben's hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. What he hadn’t counted on, unfortunately, was his sense of balance being sufficiently soaked in wine to protest this sudden change. He stumbles forward with the momentum, into Ben, who catches him with an arm around his waist.

“Just how much have you had to drink?”

Underneath the humour there’s an undercurrent of concern in Ben’s tone that Caleb deems it prudent to appease. He throws an arm around Ben’s shoulders.

“Not so much that you'd need to worry your pretty blond head about it, Tallboy.”

Ben gives him an unreadable look but begins to steer them in the direction of Caleb’s tent without further comment. Caleb’s not that drunk that he really needs the support, but he’s not going to pass up an opportunity to have Ben’s arm around him like that. Opportunist, and all that. Not that he necessarily needs an excuse; the physicality they’ve always had with each other has been its own form of torture ever since he's known what it is to want. But now Ben is a searing line of heat all along his side in the cold night air and his arm is wrapped around Caleb like it belongs there and the alcohol in his blood is making him question why exactly it would be a bad idea to bury his nose in the crook of Ben’s neck and inhale the familiar scent that tempts him every time he gets close enough to notice it.

Caleb realises Ben is talking (all right, maybe the booze is dulling his senses more than he thought) and he tries to focus on what he’s saying, but he ends up merely watching the movement of Ben’s mouth, hard to make out in the dark.

“Caleb.”

“What? Yeah.”

Jerking his eyes up, Caleb is met with another of Ben’s odd looks.

“Are you listening?” Ben asks, softly and without accusation, giving no indication if he noticed Caleb staring at his lips with all the subtlety of a cannon. Although that might also be because most of his attention is diverted to navigating a safe path between the backs of two lines of tents.

“Absolutely. What are we talking about?” Caleb responds, directing his gaze resolutely forward to aid in that endeavour.

“I was saying I would like your help going through all of Sackett’s contraptions and inventions, determine what they do and how. He knew...You always had a knack for those.”

Right. Because Sackett is no longer there to treat them like unruly school boys, explaining the intricacies of his devices to them and slapping their wrists if they touch anything without his permission. He's no longer there to meet Ben's intellect on a level that speaks to his educated mind, and he’ll no longer give Caleb those challenges he knows Caleb’s abilities are better suited for. Because he’s dead. Dead at the hands of a man that could so easily have slit Ben’s throat instead, had the circumstances been different.

He feels the pit open up underneath him again, freezing his chest. If he had returned to camp only to learn Ben had died while he was gone...

“Caleb.”

The sound of his name pulls him out of his thoughts and when he meets Ben’s eyes they are worried, like that wasn’t the first time he’s had to say it. They’ve stopped, Caleb realises, though he couldn’t say if it was him or Ben who arrested their progress. He also can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Ben’s even when Ben lets go of his waist and lifts Caleb's arm from his shoulders, moving in front of him. He keeps his hand on Caleb’s upper arm, though, brings his other hand up to mirror it, and those two points of contact burn inordinately bright, tethering Caleb to Ben as the darkness threatens to pull him down.

“Caleb?”

Caleb doesn’t know if it’s his silence that’s unsettling Ben, or whatever is showing on his face, but the concern is writ clear in those blue, blue eyes. Eyes that are so easy to fall into, eyes that Caleb has loved for longer than he can remember, whether they are glinting with mischief or sparking with anger.

“Are you all right?” asks Ben and Caleb wants to laugh because no, he really isn’t.

“If you’re going to be sick…,” Ben continues and Caleb kind of wishes that were the problem. The numb warmth of the alcohol that has helped keep him afloat is now impeding his ability to remember all the good reasons not to close the short distance separating him from Ben, and before he knows it he _has_ closed it, and he’s got his lips finally, _finally_ , on Ben’s. They’re cool and slightly rough from the winter air and Caleb is addicted instantly.

Ben’s grip on his arms tightens, and Caleb closes his fists on Ben’s uniform on either side of his waist. Using Ben’s surprise, Caleb walks him backwards the few steps it takes to the tree that stands between two of the tents, never breaking apart once, until Ben’s back is against the trunk. Caleb presses close, seeking Ben’s heat, revelling in the way Ben’s breath hitches when Caleb slides one of his legs between his. He revels in the way he has to crane his neck up a little to kiss Ben, in the way Ben fluidly responds to Caleb tilting his head to better fit them together, greedily swallows the quiet moan that escapes Ben when Caleb pushes his leg forward a little more. 

Flattening his hands, he drags them down Ben’s sides to rest on his hips, hoping to ignite the same fire in Ben that is burning in his own veins. The fire that burns hotter when he darts his tongue out and feels Ben’s lips part under his. 

A burst of raucous laughter shatters the nocturnal quiet.

Ben jerks back, using the hold he still has on Caleb’s upper arms to push them apart.

“What are you doing?” he asks a little breathlessly, eyes darting around uneasily. There is an enchanting flush on his cheeks.

“If you have to ask I must not be doing it right,” Caleb replies. He leans back in but Ben braces his hands on his chest, stopping him.

“We can’t.”

He sounds pained, and still won’t meet Caleb’s eyes, and abruptly Caleb fears he is going to be sick after all.

“Right,” he manages to choke out, dropping his hands and taking a step back.

“Caleb...,” Ben starts, only to break off when Caleb trips. He darts out a hand to wrap it around Caleb’s arm again, possibly preserving him from going arse over teakettle in a fitting exit from the entire inglorious situation.

Pathetically grateful that Ben is apparently still willing to touch him, Caleb doesn’t shrug off his hand, caught between the desire to salvage whatever he can from the situation and the desire to tuck his tail between his legs and flee.

Ben makes the decision for him.

“Let’s get you to your tent,” he says quietly, slinging Caleb’s arm over his shoulders and putting his own around Caleb’s back, bringing them into the position they were in before Caleb so spectacularly jumped them off the tracks.

They set off again, and Caleb wants to protest that he really isn’t that drunk, but he’s mainly glad that he doesn’t appear to have irrevocably endangered their friendship (and also still vaguely nauseous), so he doesn’t say anything.

Which is not awkward in the slightest.

Fortunately, it isn’t far to his tent. Once there, Ben deposits him on his cot, then kneels in front of him. Caleb blinks down at him incredulously. Ben wraps one hand high around Caleb’s calf and the other around the heel of his boot, trying to lift his foot off the ground, and just like that Caleb’s had it. A wiser man would perhaps be grateful that Ben apparently deems him a lot deeper into his cups than he is, would accept the easy excuse. But while he might have behaved like a prize idiot, Ben... _handling him_ like he’s temporarily taken leave of his senses isn’t going to help them regain their footing.

“I can take my own bloody boots off,” Caleb snaps. He regrets his harsh words immediately, but he can’t bear to see Ben on his knees before him like some kind of penitent, prostrating himself because _Caleb’s_ made a tit of himself.

Ben sits back on his haunches, releasing his boot but leaving his hand resting on Caleb’s calf, head bowed. It’s a strange tableau, uneasy, and Caleb feels horribly off-kilter. He struggles to collect himself, but before he can apologise, Ben speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, scattering any order Caleb might’ve managed to bring his thoughts into.

“What are _you_ sorry for?”

Ben isn’t the one who acted like the worst kind of fool out of grief and an alcohol-fuelled lack of judgement, and then yelled at his friend for trying to take care of him.

“Losing Sackett,” Ben replies, still to the ground. “He was your friend, too.”

Caleb could start them off on another round of an _it’s not your fault_ rigmarole in the vain hope that this time he might be able to convince Ben otherwise. But he’s _tired_. Tired of losing people. Tired of keeping up a fight that seems so endless at times. Tired of arguing individual blame when this cause demands sacrifices daily that no one man could ever account for.

So instead, without thinking too much about it, he slides a hand into the loose strands of Ben's tousled hair, cradling the side of his head, and wishes their world to narrow down to the way Ben leans into the touch.

"This is war, Tallboy. People die."

It’s uncommonly bleak for him, he knows, but it’s true. They do. Either of them might, and the prospect scares him witless. Makes him want to hold on to this beautiful boy, far too young to be carrying such a terrible weight on those squared shoulders, and never let go.

If there can be no reassurances that they’ll make it through their revolution he at least needs the reassurance that they’ll make it through his thoughtless blunder. Tightening his grip a little, he intends to tip Ben’s head up so he’ll look at Caleb. But when Ben resists Caleb ends up tugging on his hair harder than he meant to.

The strangled noise that escapes Ben is loud in the quiet tent.

They both freeze. Breathless stillness falls over the dark interior with the charged atmosphere of a storm about to break at sea.

This time when Caleb tightens his fist, Ben’s head does tilt up a little, and Caleb sees Ben’s lips part on the low gasp that slips out. His eyes are still cast downwards, lashes fanned out on his cheeks. The slight spread of his thighs seems a lot more obscene that it did a moment ago.

Tension thrums through Caleb’s body, the state of high alert that sharpens the senses during battle. Ben’s fingers twitch on Caleb’s leg. Caleb swallows.

Ben shoots to his feet, shattering the tension. Caleb’s hand hovers uselessly in the air for a moment before he drops it to the bed. Ben won’t look at him, standing with his eyes down, hands twitching at his sides, ready to bolt.

“You should get some rest,” he says, low voice hoarse, and before Caleb can open his mouth he’s gone.

In the quiet of his absence Caleb’s heartbeat races loud in his ears. His entire body relaxes like his strings have been cut, abruptly exhausted after this defusing of a situation primed to explode. The agreeable buzz in his head is already turning into a dull throbbing that pounds harder even at the thought of thinking about any of this. Dragging his hands over his face, Caleb releases a groan comprehensive of his feelings on the situation at large and tips over onto his cot.

From there, he rolls onto his back, feet still awkwardly on the ground, and stares at the canvas above him like it might provide some answers. It doesn't, but its unyielding blankness, in an unhelpful contrast to the dizzying chaos of his mind, exerts an almost hypnotic power, and Caleb can feel his exhaustion tugging him under. Right now, it seems like the preferable alternative to dwelling on...whatever the hell just happened.

In a superhuman effort, he drags his legs up onto the cot as well and, with a mental two-finger salute to his future self who will have to face the situation in the morning, lets himself be pulled into oblivion.

***

When they see each other the next day, Ben doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but behaves mostly as usual otherwise. So Caleb takes his cue and hopes they can bury it as the drunken mistake Ben is apparently willing to believe it was.

***

He clings to that hope in the days leading up to the new year, as the winter turns even colder, as the reality of camp life without Sackett starts to sink in and Ben has to restrain Caleb from storming off to lay into Washington the first time he steps into Sackett’s tent and takes in everything he’s left behind. (He’s robbed of even a proper goodbye as Washington had seen Sackett’s body transferred back to his family.) He winds up with Ben’s arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight as he fights to get enough air into his lungs.

That’s the closest Ben gets to him. Caleb only truly realises how naturally they usually are in each other’s space when that habit drops off dramatically. As the one who overstepped Ben’s boundaries Caleb wants to follow his lead on this, but he’s not sure if Ben just _really_ doesn’t want him in his space, or if he’s picking up on Caleb’s reservation and adjusting _his_ behaviour accordingly. Normally, Caleb couldn’t be arsed to beat around the bush like this, favouring a more direct approach. But this is a more delicate issue than they've ever faced - and that's without the two of them still reeling from Sackett's loss. So he waits and holds out and tries to give them the time they need to return to normal.

(If he wakes more than once from images of Ben on his knees for him, well. He’s an old hand at ignoring that particular sirens’ call.)

In the end, he doesn’t last long.

***

They’re finally on their way to rescue Hewlett, set out from camp just the two of them. Their newfound uneasiness is still their constant companion, but Caleb hopes that being able to take action and put their plan into practice will manage to settle both of them. Even being away from camp, escaping the constant reminders of what happened, of what - who - is missing, will surely benefit them both - as will getting Ben away from Washington for a spell.

That hope holds exactly as long as it takes them to make camp for the night, when the issue of the sleeping arrangements presents itself. The size of their tent means any occupants are forced into close proximity regardless of their feelings on the matter, and ordinarily when they are on the move, especially in inclement weather, the two of them huddle up for warmth if nothing else. Now, it becomes a matter of how deep this rift runs, and who will determine it.

Caleb mucks about banking their fire, uncomfortable with the idea of being the first to retire to the tent - a mistake he realises when he does crawl in after Ben, who is facing the canvas piled underneath both their blankets: The decision of whether or not to fit his front to Ben’s back the way they usually would arrange themselves is now up to him. Put on the spot by the awareness that the longer he dithers, the more awkward he makes the situation, and fed up with the fact that he’s dithering in the first place, Caleb goes for the latter. He joins Ben under the blankets with their backs resting together because, again, the tent isn’t exactly spacious, and it’s also bloody freezing, and tries not to overthink how his decision might be read into.

Lying there in the dark, waiting fruitlessly for sleep to come and keenly aware that Ben is still awake, too, Caleb is unable to fend off the memories that creep in of another cold night when it was just the two of them, out in the open, and he was desperately fighting to make sure a deathly cold Ben saw another dawn. He’s trying to focus on the fact that that was then and this is now, and yes, it’s cold, but at least this time the dumb bastard didn’t take a dip in icy water first, when Ben starts shivering.

Caleb can’t help the way his heart starts racing and his throat closes up as impressions of blue lips and fevered mutterings assault him, and before he can think twice about it he’s turned around. Everything in him longs to reach out for Ben’s trembling shoulders, but they seem unreachable now, forbidding.

Then, Ben lifts his arm slightly in unobtrusive but clear invitation.

Caleb doesn't know if Ben is also thinking of the aftermath of his stint in the Delaware, or if he simply wishes for them to be warm, or if this is indeed an olive branch. He doesn't care. Without hesitation, he presses up against Ben’s back and slides his arm around Ben’s chest. Getting a tight grip on the jacket of Ben’s uniform he rests his forehead between his shoulder blades.

Ben is a solid, _warm_ presence, his heart is beating in his chest, his scent is in Caleb’s nose with every breath he takes, and soon after Ben’s shivering abates Caleb drops off to the comfort of these reassurances.


	2. Chapter 2

Any hope Caleb might have harboured that this signalled a step toward their falling back into step evaporates quickly the next morning. Ben's already halfway out of the tent when he wakes, and striking camp reaches unprecedented levels of awkwardness. Caleb bites his tongue and thinks _give it a little more time_ until he hands Ben his refilled waterskin, their fingers brushing in the process, and Ben drops it to the ground.

“All right, that’s it.”

At Caleb’s declaration, Ben, who had ducked down to retrieve the skin, freezes briefly. By the slightly panicked look he sends Caleb as he straightens back up he knows what Caleb is speaking of. He still affects a terribly unconvincing air of unconcern, half-turning away like he’s about to make for his horse and fiddling with the waterskin.

“What’s that?” he asks, unable to meet Caleb’s gaze.

Caleb, hands on his hips, can hardly bear to look at the jumpy display.

“Listen,” he starts, uncommonly tongue-tied. One hand gestures in the air in front of him, stopped short of its intended target. Touch has always been such an effortlessly fundamental part of their communication that reaching out for Ben comes naturally, but in this instance it would probably not be a good idea. Instead it ends up a fittingly awkward gesticulation. "I'm sorry about...that night."

Ben clenches his jaw, swallows stiffly, in general looking like he’s never wished more fervently to be struck from the Earth.

"I wasn't myself," Caleb fumbles on, still grasping for the right words. While he does want to clear the air, he doesn't want to scare Ben off for good.

When a wry ghost of Ben’s _that much was obvious_ expression flits over his face Caleb's heart twists a little. Is it truly so outlandish that Caleb should feel about Ben the way he does? He ploughs on because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see this through now.

“I apologise for making you uncomfortable. It won’t happen again, all right?” Caleb would make damn sure of that. “It was a lapse in control, I’ve got it handled.”

Ben goes oddly still, even his hands ceasing their fidgeting.

“There’s no need to worry, cross my heart.” And Caleb does, letting some of the humour that he’s so far kept a tight lid on slip into his tone. He doesn't actually want to make it sound like Ben’s a maiden whose virtue he has designs on. “Past evidence notwithstanding, I do have some self-restraint. I won’t do it again.”

Dropping his arms from where he’d spread them for dramatic effect, Caleb prays that is enough to reassure Ben that any worries about a repeat slip-up are unfounded. Watching Ben for a sign to that effect, Caleb notices the slight flush creeping over the cheek that is turned towards him. Eyes still fixed on the forest floor, Ben swallows.

“What if I want you to.”

The enquiring inflection is lost amid Ben’s nerves. That is not the reason Caleb stares at him in stalling comprehension.

“What if you want me to what?” he asks. He fiercely tries to suppress the hope that springs up as Ben’s eyes jump briefly in his direction and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He barely appears to be breathing.

“Do it again.”

The silence that follows seems amplified in the quiet of the winter forest. Caleb’s thoughts feel similarly shrouded in fog as he processes the possibility that he’s had it all wrong. He hadn't even let himself consider the possibility Ben might want that.

Wild horses couldn’t have prevented Caleb from closing the distance between them then. As he steps forward, Ben turns to face him fully, and then their momentum is carrying them until Ben is up against the nearest tree in an echo of that first night. Caleb puts his hands on Ben’s waist like maybe this is their chance to pick up where things went so spectacularly wrong, and Ben gets his on Caleb’s upper arms like he’s right there with him. Caleb didn’t even notice him dropping the water skin.

Ben’s nervous, though, breath quick and eyes skittish, like he doesn’t quite trust this turn of events. Caleb knows how he feels.

But he also knows Ben, can see that his wide-eyed disbelief is coloured with longing and daring and a challenge that Caleb would bet hides a racing heart.

Caleb wants to kiss him so badly he can barely get the words out.

"You want me to do this again?"

He moves a little closer, bringing them fully into contact, bringing Ben's eyes to fix onto his own.

"Or did you have something in particular in mind?" he continues for the simple pleasure of watching that familiar exasperation steal over the look on Ben’s face. "I'd rather you be specific, see. Wouldn't want any misunderstan-"

Ben summarily cuts him off by ducking under the brim of his hat and kissing him.

It’s a little clumsy, off-centre and with Caleb mid-word, but then they readjust and Caleb finds himself clinging to Ben’s sides with a tightened grip as their lips align and Caleb’s world with it. The iron fist that had constricted his insides a little more with every one of their missteps releases its stranglehold, flooding him with relief. While he’s not usually prone to dramatics, the feeling of _rightness_ following in its wake leaves him so lightheaded that keeling over seems like a legitimate worry.

This. This is what they should have been doing. This is all he ever wants to do, losing himself in Ben’s touch, his lips, hot in the frosty morning. Ben clutching him to his chest as if defying anyone or anything that would dare come between them, even the first rays of the sun tentatively breaking through the mist.

Ben moves one hand up to run it over Caleb’s shoulder and slide it into the hair at the back of his head, only to be stopped short by his hat. Pulling back as it’s lifted from his head, Caleb opens his eyes in time to see Ben chuck it down next to them.

“Oi,” Caleb protests as Ben returns his hand to the side of his neck.

“Oh, please. That is by far not the worst that thing has seen.”

"Ain't no reason for disrespect."

Caleb's reply lacks any significant heat, not least of all because Ben's thumb stroking lightly through his beard is incredibly distracting.

Ben brings his other hand up to Caleb's shoulder.

"You want to complain? Now?" he asks, already leaning back in as if drawn slowly, inevitably, forward.

Caleb's response is nearly lost against Ben's lips: "You're right. Plenty of time to complain later."

The kiss is deep, languorous, like they have all the time in the world and intend to take it. Not how Caleb expected years of hopeless longing to culminate. Then again, maybe that was all him.

Not that he sees reason to complain, not with Ben burying his hand finally into his hair, cradling the back of his head carefully but with enough possessiveness to make Caleb bite at his lip. Ben makes a low noise, and Caleb slides his hands around his sides and to his back as far as he can before they run into the tree. Experimentally, he pushes forward a little, into the solid line of Ben's body. With a soft groan, Ben spreads his legs slightly, invitingly.

Caleb pulls away.

Not far, but Ben immediately cups his face in both hands to prevent separation, although the gentle way he does it belies any serious intention of restraint. He looks at Caleb with that same gentleness, laid bare in all its wonder without disguise, and from this up close it’s overwhelming.

Caleb rests their foreheads together, their noses brushing as Ben not quite goes in for another kiss.

“That night,” Caleb starts, unable to stop the words, unsure if he wants to. “I thought you didn’t want this.”

A brief pause, suspended in the dissipating fog.

“I thought you only wanted it because you were drunk.”

Caleb has to close his eyes at the quiet confession with which Ben answers his own. What a pair they make.

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says in the same quiet tone.

Ben pulls back slightly to give himself proper glaring space.

“Oh, like yours is any less dumb,” he retorts, only to undermine his words by stroking the skin below Caleb’s eye softly with his thumb. His gaze trails over Caleb’s face. “Like there is a world in which I wouldn’t want you.”

There is a beat of silence during which Caleb keeps staring at Ben. Then he surges forward, knocking Ben solidly into the tree with the force of his kiss. He gets one hand on Ben’s lapel, tugging belatedly, to make sure Ben knows exactly how bodily he is being kissed.

“Christ,” Caleb breaks them apart to say, foreheads again pressed together. His chest feels oddly tight. “You can’t _say_ shite like that.”

“It’s true.”

Caleb shakes his head, a breath of incredulous laughter his only recourse.

“Caleb…” Ben nudges his forehead against Caleb’s as if to telepathically help convey the urgency in his voice, in his breath on Caleb’s lips.

“I know,” Caleb nods in reply, pulling Ben in again by his lapel. “I know.”

This kiss, starting off as a mere brush of lips, quickly grows deep and impassioned, the breathlessness of their shared wonderment turning into the breathlessness of Caleb running his hand over Ben’s chest underneath his coat, pushing his leg between Ben’s thighs, always closer, never close enough. Even with Ben’s arms slung around Caleb’s shoulders, even with his lip caught between Caleb’s teeth.

Lifting his other hand from Ben’s back to the nape of his neck, Caleb scratches his fingertips into the hair there. Ben gives a full-body shiver and Caleb decides to find out the extent of this responsiveness that has haunted his thoughts.

Pulling away, undeterred when Ben tries to follow, he tugs at Ben’s hair tie.

“Can I?”

Ben nods impatiently, barely getting out a “yes” before his lips are on Caleb’s again.

Impatient he can work with. He undoes Ben’s ties and drops them in his pocket, then he brings his hand back up to sink it properly into Ben’s hair. He runs his fingers through the newly freed strands before slowly closing his fist on a handful of them.

When they start to tauten, Ben breaks away, stilling his restless body to look at Caleb with heavy-lidded eyes. He too is remembering what happened that night in Caleb's tent, and he answers Caleb's unspoken question with a barely-there nod.

Gradually tightening his hold, Caleb watches as Ben's eyes slip closed and his mouth falls open, his breath shuddering out of him as his head tips back.

How could Caleb be expected not to fall on Ben's neck? He scrapes his teeth across the delicate skin under Ben's jaw, mouths at the galloping pulse, and surely there has never been an article of clothing more of a nuisance than the cloth at Ben's neck.

Keeping one hand in Ben's hair, Caleb uses the other to rid him of the offending garment, stuffing it in his pocket as well. Then he makes good use of his new freedom. Ben brings his hand back up to the back of Caleb's head, holding him there - all the encouragement Caleb needs.

He gives Ben's hair a sharp tug, and the reaction is immediate. With a startled groan, Ben's hips buck forward into Caleb's thigh. The stiff length in his breeches is unmistakable.

Oh yes, the responsiveness is going to be a lot of fun.

Running his hand down Ben's torso and letting it settle on his arse, Caleb pulls him closer just as he shifts his leg forward.

This time, Ben's groan has the strangled shape of Caleb's name. He's clutching the nape of Caleb's neck in a death grip and is apparently trying to restrain his movements.

That won't do.

"Come on, Tallboy," he murmurs into Ben’s ear, nose buried in the strands of hair that have escaped his hold, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

The reluctant noise Ben makes stands in contrast to the jerk of his hips that he can’t quite suppress.

“That’s it,” Caleb encourages, nosing along Ben’s jaw. “That’s good.”

His words are received with a whine as pleased as it is embarrassed. He knew Ben would respond well to praise.

"There we go. Let me hear you," he goes on, setting to bringing forth more of those delightful sounds with lips and teeth against the skin of Ben's throat.

"Caleb…"

Ben's protest is the familiar response to Caleb doing something outrageous he is secretly thrilled by, but this time it's high and breathless and accompanied by Ben clinging to his shoulders. And this time, Caleb intends to get Ben to abandon the decorum he usually sticks to. He has wanted this for so long, wants to see Ben lost to pleasure, and he doesn't care that they're in the middle of the bloody woods in the middle of bloody winter. He times another push of his thigh with a tug on Ben's hair and is rewarded with a jump of Ben's hips and a high groan.

"Caleb! God…"

Caleb grins against Ben's neck.

"Blaspheming already?"

He should've known that someone this high-strung would be easy to take apart.

With a small, intractable growl, Ben digs his fingertips into Caleb's shoulders.

"I'll show you blasphemy."

And Ben's words are so reminiscent of their juvenile play-fighting that Caleb can feel the hopeless grin of adoration they evoke breaking across his face as he pulls back.

Then he catches sight of Ben, and he couldn't have guaranteed for whatever his face is showing if his life depended on it.

In the low morning sun, breaking through in full by now, Ben’s hair is glowing golden. The curve of his throat, accentuated by the tilt of his head, is already starting to show the effects of Caleb’s beard, matching the flush across his cheekbones. His lashes too, lowered over closed eyes, are catching the slanting rays, as does every cloud of breath heavily exhaled from parted lips.

"Christ." At Caleb's involuntary exhalation, Ben tips his head forward and opens questioning eyes. “You’re a vision, you know that?” Caleb isn’t even embarrassed about the reverence in his voice.

Ben however is, if the soft, disbelieving laugh that startles out of him is any indication. The defensive frown that passes over his face doesn’t deter Caleb from bringing his hand forward and stroking his thumb across the reddened skin at Ben’s throat.

"You are," he insists, with purpose this time. "Look at you."

“I’d rather not,” Ben replies before preventing further discussion by surging forward into a kiss. His response had been wry, but not enough to entirely mask the unease he evidently feels about his own pleasure. Well, it seems that Caleb is the lucky bastard who gets to help him shed that self-consciousness.

Burying his hand in Ben’s hair once more, he uses that leverage to break away from Ben’s hungry lips enough to paint his own vision.

"Can't wait to get you on a proper bed.” He trails his fingers along Ben’s hip. “Going to take my time with you, get you out of all these clothes.” When his fingers skirt the band of Ben’s trousers along his front, Ben presses into the touch.

“You like that?” Caleb asks against Ben’s lips, tugging his shirt up to get underneath. “Me getting my hands all over your skin?” Ben’s belly jumps at the touch of Caleb’s fingers, and he inhales sharply as those fingers slide lower. “Yeah?”

Ben tries to kiss him again, but Caleb uses his grip on his hair to pull his head back. The whine that escapes Ben is almost enough to have Caleb fall on his parted lips himself.

“Yeah?” he asks again, slipping his hand further past Ben’s waistband.

Eyes shut, Ben rakes his nails against the back of Caleb’s head.

“ _Yes_.”

Caleb shifts his leg back a little to give himself more room and is immediately met with a noise of protest.

“Shh.” Caleb soothes his hand low over Ben’s stomach. “I ain’t done with you.”

The pink splashed across Ben’s cheeks is growing deeper by the minute, and he pulls Caleb’s head closer, probably not in small part to escape his scrutiny. Caleb complies readily, tilting Ben’s head further back and nuzzling underneath his jaw. From there, he can’t miss Ben swallowing when he gets his breeches open, nor the hitch in his breath when Caleb finally wraps his hand around Ben’s cock, hard and blood-hot.

This is, regrettably, not the time to draw things out, so he sets about taking Ben apart swiftly and relentlessly. He can feel each tremor as he elicits it from Ben’s body with deft strokes of his hand, and the little noises that catch in Ben’s throat send heated want coursing through him. He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of Ben's neck and Ben thrusts into his hold.

"That's it. _Christ_ , Ben, the things I want to do to you."

The _sound_ Ben makes. Caleb can't not lift his head, taking in Ben's pinched brow, his slick lips. One of his restless movements brings his thigh into contact with the evidence of Caleb’s own arousal, but the bolt of pleasure that shoots up his spine is secondary to the effect it has on Ben. The hand in Caleb’s hair tightens and he would have cracked his head against the tree if Caleb hadn’t cradled it with his own hand.

There’s really no other course of action than to repeat the motion, deliberately - Caleb is fairly certain he could find his end exactly like that - and watch as the last remains of Ben’s self-restraint start to fall away.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Caleb hears himself ask, voice low, as he continues to stroke Ben, relishing the feeling of him in his hand. “How often I’ve dreamt of doing this?”

All right, so maybe he’s not one to talk about self-restraint.

It does get him Ben tipping his head forward and meeting Caleb’s gaze with eyes burning bright in desperate wonder. His hair is wild around his face and his chest heaving and Caleb has never seen anyone wear debauchery so well.

Perhaps Ben can tell that Caleb is about to voice thoughts to that effect, because he flees into another kiss, deep and filthy, arms securely around Caleb’s shoulders to bring them close once more. That doesn’t discourage Caleb from drawing Ben fully from his breeches to give himself more leeway.

Ben is rocking into his grip continuously now, and on one particular twist of Caleb's hand he breaks their kiss to gasp aloud.

"Caleb, please…"

With their foreheads pressed together, Caleb can _taste_ Ben's desperation on his lips. And hell if Ben pleading doesn't play havoc with Caleb's self-control.

"I've got you. You're almost there, aren't you? You're so close."

Caleb doesn't know if the shudder that races through Ben's entire body is due to the sentiments of his words or their audibly affected tone. Either way he redoubles his efforts, working Ben's slick length, the sensitive head.

"If you think _this_ is good, wait till I get my mouth on you."

“Oh, God.”

Hips bucking, Ben buries his face in the juncture of Caleb's neck and shoulder with another one of his glorious cut-off whimpers. Caleb cradles his head there with his hand on his nape.

"You like that idea? You want me on my knees?"

Ben's inarticulate whimper alone would be reason enough to deliver on that promise. Caleb tightens his grip a little more, twists a little tighter, receives another frayed groan.

"That's it. Come on, love."

With a cry muffled by his teeth sunk into Caleb’s kerchief, Ben spills onto the ground, skillfully angled by Caleb’s practised hand. Caleb continues to stroke him, aiming to draw out every last convulsion of pleasure.

Once he's spent, Ben ducks his face fully into Caleb's neck, and every hard exhale of hot breath shivers down the entire length of Caleb's spine. He tucks Ben away again before the cold gets to that most sensitive part of him, and lets his hand rest on Ben's hip. This inspires Ben to start nosing along his throat, underneath his jaw and below his ear, and Caleb can't suppress his groan even as he lifts his chin for more. He won't be able to withstand much of that.

A moment of stillness overcomes Ben at that, before he’s in motion again, bringing first one and, when that doesn't work, his other hand down to do up his breeches. Setting his hands on Caleb's hips, he pulls back just enough for Caleb to catch a brief glimpse of that enticing blush and a giddy fervour sparking in his eyes. Then, he sinks to his knees.

In the time it takes Caleb to find his tongue Ben has managed to undo his trousers.

"You know I ain't expecting…"

"I know," Ben preempts with a quick upward glance, looking embarrassed for his eagerness. He doesn't hesitate to draw Caleb's cock from its confines, however, and Caleb has to brace himself against the tree with his free hand. Even though his own pleasure has hardly been tended to, it isn't far off from spilling over.

Caleb brushes the skin beneath Ben’s ear with his thumb.

"Well, then. By all means."

He refuses to be embarrassed by the hoarseness of his voice; he'd dare anyone to remain unaffected with Ben Tallmadge at their feet, bathed in gold, not a care for his uniform, the breeches of which he's undoubtedly staining on the forest floor. He watches, transfixed, as Ben tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear and leans in and then he has to close his eyes otherwise he'll embarrass himself after all at the sight.

Even so it's a close call, the first swipe of Ben's tongue over his head shooting like a burst of fire straight up his spine.

Then Ben moves further down the side of his length and the cold air leaves a trail of ice in his wake. Caleb doesn't think he's ever experienced such intensely contrasting sensations before.

"I never took you as one for cruel and unusual punishment," he says, even though he doesn't think Ben's doing it on purpose. Ben draws back fractionally and, wanting to make sure he doesn’t take his comment too seriously, Caleb reopens his eyes just in time to see Ben take him into his mouth.

He curls his fingers on the tree, hardly noticing the scrape of the bark against the skin of his knuckles. It helps him keep the hold his hand still has on Ben's nape light, though it doesn't stop his feelings from bursting forth emphatically.

" _Christ_ , Ben. Do you have any idea…It's as if you stepped straight out of my dreams."

Once he starts talking, it’s hard to stop. He's always had the tendency, but he doesn't think Ben minds hearing Caleb's reactions to his attentions.

"Indecent, is what you are. I'll wager the Lord Himself doesn't have revelations like this."

Judging by the noise of protest he sends shaking into Caleb's core Ben might have something to say about that after all, but he merely clutches tighter at Caleb's hips and flushes a deeper red.

It doesn't deter the single-minded focus with which he is exploring all the ways his quick tongue and clever mouth is rapidly rendering Caleb helpless. The almost scientific curiosity he’s applying himself with is so fundamentally _Ben_ it does something that can’t possibly be healthy to Caleb’s heart.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t breathtakingly efficient. Ben’s nothing if not a quick study, homing in on all of Caleb’s most sensitive places, attuned to his every reaction, and that undivided dedication is a rush in and of itself.

“You feel so good,” Ben drags out of him, as if over gravel, sucking at him mercilessly. “Lord, you feel incredible. You’re so good, Ben.”

He trails off in an inarticulate groan at the sound Ben makes around his cock.

Ben’s hair is brushing against Caleb’s hand with the movement of his head. Caleb slides his fingers into it, gathering it back, keeps his hand there - and that is going to spell his end very quickly. He's got an unobstructed view of Ben's animated face, eyes closed, and even though he keeps his grip light Ben responds as sensitively as ever.

He doesn’t even attempt to stem the words pouring from him - how could he keep quiet with Ben looking like sin and feeling like heaven. He does however make an effort to rally enough to give Ben a warning before the end - which is summarily ignored. So it is in the incredible heat of Ben’s mouth that he succumbs to pleasure, tidal and unfettered.

Realising his eyes closed at some point, Caleb opens them again and sees Ben spit his release on the ground with a grimace. He doesn’t know if fondness is what should be constricting his chest and he doesn’t rightly care, rubbing his fingertips gently into Ben’s scalp as he catches his breath.

Ben’s keeping busy, tucking Caleb back in and doing him up with restless hands. Attempting to project the calm that usually manages to counteract Ben’s nervous energy, Caleb offers him a hand up. Now more of a height Caleb can appreciate him in all his debauched disarray, right down to the smear at his lower lip. Before Caleb can draw his attention to it, Ben wipes at it with his thumb, catching Caleb’s gaze as he does. Whatever he sees there prompts him to pause briefly and then extend his tongue to swipe it across his thumb.

Caleb would have thought he’s too young for his heart to give out, but apparently it’s willing to make an effort in this instance.

“Bloody menace,” he mutters, pulling Ben in. The kiss turns a little deeper than intended when the taste on Ben’s tongue sparks something primal in Caleb.

When they part, Ben's hands are on Caleb's sides, the initial uncertainty in his manner once more - or maybe it's an unaccustomed shyness. Caleb cradles his jaw with a gentle touch.

"You're a mess," he says fondly.

Nerves are successfully replaced by exasperation.

"And whose fault is that?"

Caleb puts on his broadest grin.

Ben shakes his head in disbelief even as his blush threatens to deepen again.

"Here," Caleb produces the discarded cravat from his pocket, looping it around Ben's neck. "I'm afraid you'll have to do the honours."

He takes enough time withdrawing his hands that Ben's brush his as he reaches for the article.

"How did you manage to get to your age without learning how to tie one of these?" Ben asks as he sets about doing just that.

"It's a gift," Caleb responds loftily, setting his hands on Ben's waist. Then: "Did you just call me old?"

But Ben is distracted, more so than even the overly complicated furnishings at his throat would merit. Even once he's done with those he keeps fiddling with his clothes, putting himself to rights with a single-minded focus and avoiding Caleb's gaze even when Caleb ducks his head to catch it.

"You all right, love?"

Ben falls still, hands gripping the bottom of his waistcoat, blinking a few times in rapid succession. Then he clears his throat and tugs at his perfectly straightened waistcoat.

“Yes, I...am, yes.”

Another clearing of the throat, this time accompanied by a hand smoothing down the line of his buttons.

Thinking back, Caleb realises the likely source of this peculiar display. Ben doesn’t give him the chance to make sure he didn’t cross any lines, however, before ducking out of his hold. Fearing Ben to be genuinely embarrassed Caleb turns to track his progress. As he watches, Ben picks up first Caleb’s hat and then the water skin on his way to the horses.

“Come on, we have a major to rescue!” he calls over his shoulder exuberantly.

While Caleb’s still raising his eyebrows at that, Ben bats his hat against his leg a couple of times, sweeps it onto his head, and swings himself into the saddle. Taking up the reins, he looks down at Caleb expectantly.

“Well? We don’t have all day.”

Caleb looks back at him - brimming with action and a barely contained grin, resplendent in blue and gold, with stains on his knees and Caleb's battered hat on his head - and knows he is irrevocably and impenitently lost.

He moves to follow Ben.

“I ain’t wearing your helmet.”


End file.
